


Do You Yield?

by dykeannebonny



Category: Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirate, Dom/sub, Kalluzeb Summer Exchange, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, M/M, Pirates, Rope Bondage, human!zeb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:41:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25274845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dykeannebonny/pseuds/dykeannebonny
Summary: The Ghost has been on the hunt for a week now, chasing a prize chosen for them by the Alliance Council. The manifest they have recovered promises riches, of course--but Zeb Orrelios knows the chase is worth far more than the gold.He does not yet know, however, the worth of the man he will meet on this chase, or the value of a well-placed ankle chain.
Relationships: Alexsandr Kallus/Garazeb "Zeb" Orrelios
Comments: 15
Kudos: 68
Collections: Kalluzeb Summer Exchange





	Do You Yield?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JessKo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JessKo/gifts).



> The fact that I got the opportunity to combine two of my favorite things--Black Sails and Star Wars Rebels--in this fic is something for which I will be eternally grateful. Thank you to the mods for putting together this spectacular exchange! What a joy to write for it.
> 
> And jessko, thank you for such thorough prompts! I hope I did them justice and that you enjoy!

The _Ghost_ has been on the hunt for a week now, chasing a prize chosen for them by the Alliance Council. The manifest they have recovered promises riches, of course--but Zeb Orrelios knows the chase is worth far more than the gold. The _Titus_ , really a glorified merchant vessel, should be an easy target, full of arrogant, useless, and weak officers; but Captain Syndulla’s briefings are hushed and urgent, limited sometimes to only a few members of the vanguard. Zeb considers it an honor to be among them.

They are a day out from catching the _Titus,_ its sails visible even without a glass, when Hera calls the vanguard to her quarters once more.

“I know I’ve been vague on the details of this hunt,” she apologizes by way of greeting, smoothing a piece of parchment under her hand. Her gaze falls on each member of her crew as she acknowledges them: “Sabine, Ezra, Zeb--you have all been patient with me despite limited information, and for that, I am truly grateful.”

Behind her, Kanan Jarrus, the ship's quartermaster, presses a hand against Hera’s shoulder. She sighs.

“I had hoped sharing this would be unnecessary, that everything would go according to plan, but--well, I should have known better.” She smiles wryly as her crew chuckles. “News of what the _Titus_ is carrying reached Captain Gerrera of the _Onderon_ as well as the Ohnaka gang. The Alliance Council didn’t think it worth mentioning because Captain Ohnaka’s last known whereabouts were a shipwreck, and Saw was causing political upheaval in Nassau. But the sails we marked this morning do not belong to the _Titus_.”

Zeb steps closer to Hera’s desk as she turns the parchment toward her crew. Ezra throws his hands in the air when he registers the image drawn there, while Sabine crosses her arms, her mouth drawn tight in a frown. The ship detailed on the page bears little resemblance to the one they had been chasing, despite its correct place on their course. Zeb growls. “So we’ve been following the wrong ship?”

“Not exactly,” Kanan offers. “We think we’re following the ship that is following the _Titus_. We’re… we aren’t entirely sure whose ship it is.”

Hera continues her quartermaster’s thoughts as if their minds are one. “The Ohnaka gang can never hold a ship for long. And no one on this crew knows Saw’s ship well enough to identify it. The good news is--”

“I fail to see how any of this is good news. Captain Gerrera will want to sink that ship and we’ll lose every bit of information on it,” Sabine interjects. She and Ezra’s eyes are hard and cold, their time on Saw’s crew an unpleasant and not-distant-enough memory.

Ezra laughs. “But if it’s Hondo, he’ll just want the gold. He’ll help us take the _Titus_.”

Hera’s answer of “precisely” comes at the same time as Zeb’s derisive laugh. When everyone turns to him, he scrubs his hands over his face and ignores his Captain’s pointed glare.

“We’re all going to pretend Ohnaka isn’t our biggest rival, then? The moment he spots us we’ll be in a fight for that gold. We’re the Council’s highest earners!”

“And if it comes to that, I trust you can handle Ohnaka’s crew. Prisoners _only_. I don’t want any blood spilled on my decks tomorrow.”

Hera dismisses them with that order, and it’s the same order she directs at Zeb the next morning. They’re picking up eight knots and well on their way to boarding a vessel that could hardly hit five if it dropped its t’gallants in a windstorm. Zeb holds his broadsword in his hands, grinning down at the newly-sharpened blade. On another day, he might have pushed his Captain to forgo the boarding; they could outrun the Ohnaka’s rickety vessel with ease. But the first volley of cannon fire--which misses the _Ghost_ by a wide margin--has Zeb itching for a fight, nerves burning hot as the sun he’s under. 

The _Ghost_ crew boards before Captain Hondo can give the order to reload the cannons. From there, it’s utter chaos, pirates descending on pirates in a cloud of gun smoke, clashing swords, and battle cries. Zeb doesn’t even have to draw his sword on the first two men who dare to face him. His fists and elbows are the only weapons he needs.

He takes a moment to survey the battle before he spies Captain Ohnaka at the foremast. Ezra is already halfway up the stairs. He’s their best negotiating tactic against Hondo, of course; still, Zeb wants to at least see the smirk fall from Hondo’s face as he realizes he’s been captured by Captain Syndulla _again_.

“Not without me, kid!” Zeb yells over the cacophony. Ezra, having reached the foremast, turns, flashes a toothy smile, and continues on his way.

“Little shit,” Zeb mutters. He’s almost on the stairs when a sword sweeps toward his shoulder. He sidesteps the blow and spins, pulling his own blade in one fluid motion and holding it at the ready. It's a heavy weapon, not quite suitable for a bloodless fight. Zeb groans as he remembers Sabine’s admonishment the night before--”Hey, idiot, Hera said _no blood_ ”--and blocks another blow. Zeb’s parry allows him some space, enough to finally behold his attacker.

Zeb’s mouth goes dry. Whoever he is, he is new to the Ohnaka gang. Perhaps a defector from the British navy--an officer, judging by the manner in which he fights. Zeb hasn’t struggled against an opponent for some time. Privately, he blames it on the fact that his opponent’s eyes are a golden hazel, and the strands of sunshine-yellow hair falling in front of those eyes are begging to be tucked back into place.

The newcomer blocks Zeb’s next blow, and the next, before ducking to the side, gripping Zeb’s wrist, and using Zeb’s weight to throw Zeb into the base of the forecastle. Breathless and dizzy, Zeb only blinks as a sword’s stinging edge presses against his throat.  
  
“If the Captain had not ordered us to show mercy, you would not be breathing.”

Zeb smiles and the man didn’t even blink when presented with the blood on Zeb’s teeth. Zeb licks his lips and lifts his chin higher, forcing the blade to slide briefly against his skin. The sting of the cut is worth the brief moment where Zeb’s opponent relaxes his grip, giving Zeb the opening to slam their heads together. He presses forward as the other man falls to his knees, stunned, blood pouring from his nose.

Zeb takes the man’s jaw between his thumb and forefinger. When he brings his gaze back to his own eyes, Zeb asks, “Do you yield?”  
  
He does not receive an answer. Instead, Captain Ohnaka’s voice sounds from above. “Orrelios, please,” he calls, “that one, I need him.”  
  
Zeb groans, tosses his head back, and blinks up at Hondo. “I wasn’t gonna kill him!”  
  
“You are a saint among pirates! Ha!” Clasping his hands together, Hondo casts his gaze around his ship and the _Ghost_. “Now. Where is Captain Syndulla? We haven’t talked since, oh, there was that incident with Calrissian--no, wait, before or after the wedding--how is your quartermaster, hm? And then there was…”

Zeb heaves a sigh and starts binding his prisoner’s wrists. He ignores the way his stomach jolts when their hands brush together, and the way his chest tightens when he hauls the man to his feet and their eyes meet again. Instead, he lets Hondo’s prattling fill his mind as they lead him and Zeb’s prisoner onto the _Ghost._ At the very least, Zeb knows the man whose arm he is holding is important to Hondo. He tells himself that’s why he’s gripping him so tightly. Why he’s choosing him among any of the other members of the Ohnaka gang as leverage to convince Hondo to aid them against the _Titus_.

No one but Hondo speaks until they meet Hera on the deck. Sabine, Kanan, and Captain Ohnaka make their way to Hera’s quarters for negotiations, and Zeb pushes his prisoner to the brig.

Zeb watches the man out of the corner of his eye. He moves without resistance, and meets Zeb’s gaze occasionally. After the fourth time, Zeb’s face is heating; by the fifth, he decides to speak before he can embarrass himself. “By the way, it’s Zeb. My name--it’s Zeb.” 

The man nods. “Short for ‘Garazeb.’ I know. I’ve heard tales of you and the other Spectres. I am… truly amazed you have all managed to survive as long as you have.”

The statement earns a chuckle from Zeb as he unlocks the brig. “Heh, let’s say we’re adaptable.”

“‘Inept but determined’ was more along the lines of my thinking.”

“Determined, eh? Then I hope you know this isn’t personal,” Zeb says as he opens the door. “Just precaution.”

“The ropes on my wrists feel a little personal.” The man smirks.  
  
Zeb snorts. “I know you’re a good fighter, and that Hondo always has his little schemes. So. Rope.”

“And?” His eyes dart to the ankle cuff chained to the wall.

Zeb presses his hand to the man’s chest and pushes him to sit. “That’s up to you--”  
  
“Alexsandr.”  
  
“That’s up to you, Alexsandr.”

When he feels Alexsandr’s pulse under his skin, Zeb realizes his hand is still on his chest. He almost wants to test his luck, to leave it there and see how long it takes for Alexsandr to rebuff him--or to invite him closer.

Zeb swallows and pulls his hand away. It’s a long walk to the door with Alexsandr’s eyes on his back.

Sabine catches Zeb when he emerges from below decks. “Good call on that Kallus dude. According to Hondo, he was a high-ranking officer who defected. He’s been helping the Ohnaka gang hunt low to mid-level prizes to earn their trust. He knows all their routes, trading posts, tricks, codes… he’d be an asset on any crew.”

  
Zeb nods as they walk. “Hera wants Alexsa--Kallus. She wants him with us.”  
  
“Yes. She thinks he could help us defeat Admiral Thrawn. If that is even a possibility--” She pauses, her voice growing quieter as they approach the helm. “Hera’s negotiating now, but I don’t see her even giving Hondo a choice. Naturally Hondo wants to hold onto Kallus _and_ get a majority of the share if he helps us take the _Titus_ . We have plenty of stores and credit to last without this haul, though, so she’s going to make Hondo an offer he can’t refuse: the entire share, and some compensation for Kallus.”  
  
Her words halt Zeb. Leaning his shoulder against the mast, he pinches the bridge of his nose. “The crew’s not gonna’ like risking our lives against the _Titus_ for something we’re not even getting a share of.”

“They will if they know what this could mean for us--”  
  
“ _Especially_ ,” Zeb interjects, holding his palm out. “If the Captain only _thinks_ Kallus can help us find Thrawn. That leaves us with no earnings, less savings, and a new crew member to feed.” He ticks each one off on a finger, and Sabine crosses her arms, her brow furrowing.  
  
“Hera asked us to find out what Kallus knows.”

Zeb thinks of that sword pressed into his neck, the loyalty in Alexsandr’s eyes. “Right. We’ll just go ask him to trade the only valuable information he has for our word that we won’t slit his throat when we have it. You realize he’s probably killed people we knew? Because he does.”  
  
“So he’ll be an uneasy fit. We just need someone to convince him he’ll be protected.” Sabine taps Zeb’s forehead with her finger. His eyes dart to the charcoal and oil paint still clinging to her skin and nails, and he frowns before swatting her hand away.  
  
Lips pressed in a mischievous smile, Sabine suggests, “ _You_ can get the information we need. And likely convince him to stay as well.”  
  
The feeling of Alexsandr’s skin under his hand rushes back to Zeb so quickly he feels dizzy. He clears his throat, scratches his neck, and looks pointedly at the deck. “I am--I am on the vanguard and I am the Boatswain; I am not an interrogator. Kanan can--should--handle that. And why would I--Hera’s the Captain, it should come from her that he’s not going to be harmed by the crew. Why would he listen to me?”  
  
Sabine presses her lips together in a knowing smile. “I understand that you have an affinity for him. At least according to what Ezra saw.”  
  
Rolling his eyes, Zeb punches Sabine’s arm and tucks his tongue under his teeth. Briefly, he entertains a fantasy of throwing Ezra overboard, the moment cut short when Sabine hits him back. He shakes his head, a number of excuses forming in his mind, before linking his fingers behind his neck and sighing, unable to protest further. “I wouldn’t say you’re misunderstanding anything, then.”  
  
“Good.” Sabine inclines her head back toward the brig. “I’ll make sure the others know not to interrupt the wooing--”  
  
“ _Interrogation_ ,” Zeb insists, cheeks flushing. He grits his teeth.  
  
“That’s what I said. Interrogation.”

Tossing Zeb a wink, Sabine saunters off. Zeb leans his forehead into the mast. “Little shit.”

Zeb returns to the brig with water and a clean shirt. Alexsandr is quiet, head bowed to one side and resting against a barrel. His eyes are closed. Zeb approaches him carefully, avoiding creaky boards as best he can. He sets the water down next to Alexsander and then sits across from him.

He’d thought Alexsandr attractive before; here, light casting shadows across his fair skin, highlighting the curves of his mouth, the grooves of his neck, the dips of his shoulders, Zeb allows himself the thought that the man is _beautiful_ .  
  
“Are you going to stare at me, or are you going to help me wash this blood off?”

Alexsandr laughs as Zeb, caught, gapes open-mouthed and fumbles for an answer. He hopes the shadows hide the blush on his cheeks. “I thought you were asleep.”  
  
“I know.” His hazel eyes are half-lidded.  
  
Zeb clears his throat. “I brought you a clean shirt as well. It won’t fit, but you can wear it if you choose.”

Alexsandr’s lip quirks. “If I choose? I believed myself at your mercy here, Orrelios.”  
  
Chuckling dryly, Zeb shakes his head. “I’m not here to give you orders.”  
  
“No?” Alexsandr’s voice is pitched low, laced with something wicked. “That _is_ a shame.”  
  
“What?” Zeb breathes. Something uncoils in his throat, something heavy, and he swallows. His nails dig into the fabric of his pants. Across from him, Alexsandr straightens his back even as his thighs fall apart. He smirks, cocks his head, and meets Zeb’s eyes like it’s a challenge.  
  
“I know I have something you want.” His eyes flick to Zeb’s mouth, briefly, and it makes Zeb’s chest tight. Alexsandr continues, “I had hoped you would come take it.”

The air is thick between them. Silence stretches until Zeb can hear the crew moving above deck, until he can hear his blood rushing in his own ears. He takes deep, purposeful breaths, and then-- ”So tell me what to do.”  
  
Alexsandr’s composure breaks a moment. His eyes widen, his mouth dropping open a moment, and it thrills Zeb to see it. His cock twitches in his breeches. The moment passes; Alexsandr’s carefully chosen facade washes over him like waves on a shore, and his eyes are dark again, deep and wanting.

"Come here," he orders. As Zeb begins to stand, Alexsandr snaps, "I did not say to walk."

Zeb exhales like he’s been punched in the gut. There is another quiet moment where he stares at his hands--rough with calluses, lined with scars, soaked with the memory of blood--before pressing his palms to the floorboards. He ducks his head. And he crawls toward Alexsandr.

It’s only a few paces, but it might as well be the length of the ship. Zeb knows Alexsandr is watching him, but he doesn’t look up. His pulse thrums in anticipation of the next words Alexsandr will say, and he cycles through potential orders from the other man, knowing he will follow them without question. 

Even on his knees Zeb’s eyes are level with Alexsandr’s when he stops crawling. Mere inches from his face, Zeb can see the freckles on Alexsandr’s skin, as well as pink patches of healing sunburn scattered across his cheeks, ears, and neck. Sun-kissed. Zeb wants to run his tongue along every mark.

But he waits for instruction.

“Remove your shirt.”  
  
Zeb does. He takes his time with it, pulling from the back of his neck so the material drags across his skin. When it’s off, he tosses it aside, and Alexsandr nods approvingly. He drags his knuckles down Zeb’s cheek. Zeb leans into the touch, savoring even the burn of the rope where it catches his beard.

“And mine.” Alexsandr leans back, holding his bound wrists above his head. Zeb smiles, teeth exposed, and grips Alexsandr’s shirt at the collar. It tears easily in his arms

Zeb presses his palm to Alexsandr’s chest. His skin is warm, smooth, and unmarked, as if few enemies have ever touched him in battle. Zeb digs his nails in and drags them down to Alexsandr’s waist, and then leans in to follow the red marks he left behind with his tongue. Alexsandr inhales sharply.  
  
Suddenly, there is a heel on Zeb’s shoulder. “Sit up,” Alexsandr demands. “Take off the rest of your clothes.”  
  
“Alright,” Zeb purrs, kicking off his boots and simpering. He huffs gratefully when he finally frees his cock, and then sits up on his knees in front of Alexsandr, arms wide as he presents himself for the taking. “What is your command?”

“Kiss me.”

Zeb surges forward. He wraps his arms around Alexsandr’s lower back and drags him fully to the floor. Alexsandr opens for him, and kisses just as confidently as his words, all tongue and teeth and wetness. Zeb moans like a deserted man discovering water.

For the second time that day, Alexsandr uses Zeb’s weight against him. He tosses his legs around Zeb’s hips, crosses his ankles, and pulls, rolling so that Zeb is on his back on the floor. The wood cracks against his back with a hollow thud, and Zeb groans. The sound turns to a whining moan as Alexsandr grinds down on him. Zeb reaches up to squeeze Alexsandr’s thigh, then slips his hand under his waistband to wrap it around his hard, pulsing cock. Alexsandr’s eyes flutter closed; it’s the only opening Zeb needs. With his free hand, he stretches to grab a chain to his right. He half-sits, dragging his hand down Alexsandr’s leg, and shackles his ankle.

Alexsandr gasps. “You--”  
  
Zeb, grinning, moves from beneath Alexsandr--who sits, staring incredulously at the new restraint. Zeb stands. His cock aches, heavy against his stomach, and he feels feverish looking at Alexsandr’s lips.

Zeb slides his fingers into Alexsandr’s hair. He pulls, hard, until Alexsandr is looking up at him, slack-jawed, throat exposed. “Do you yield?” he snarls.  
  
When Alexsandr speaks, Zeb feels the breath against his skin. “Yes.”

Zeb curls his fingers. His nails scrape against Alexsandr’s scalp, gathering hair, twisting and pulling. Alexsandr makes a small noise in the back of his throat that Zeb wants to consume.  
  
“Yes _what_ ?”  
  
Alexsandr stares up at Zeb. “Yes, _sir_ ,” he moans eagerly, like the words were made for him to say.

Loose strands of hair fall in front of Alexsandr’s face as he leans forward to mouth at the juncture of Zeb’s hip and thigh--lips first, then his teeth, leaving angry red bites that he makes no move to soothe. Zeb hisses and Alexsandr hums smugly, the vibration sending jolts straight to Zeb’s cock. He’s already leaking when Alexsandr’s tongue slides against him.

Zeb grunts and his hips stutter forward. Alexsandr licks his cock from base to head and then takes him fully in his mouth, noisily, like he’s desperate for it. Zeb braces his other hand on Alexsandr’s shoulder.

Zeb’s cock hits the back of Alexsandr’s throat and his vision goes white. His toes curl in his boots as he considers coming in Alexsandr’s mouth, laying waste to that pretty face. The moment passes as Zeb, aching and shuddering, pulls Alexsandr’s mouth from his cock with a slick _pop_ and shoves him to the floor.

Zeb makes quick work of Alexsandr’s pants. He gets them around the ankle cuff and then returns to Alexsandr’s body.

“I’m going to fuck you,” Zeb growls into Alexsandr’s ear, “until you beg me to let you come.” His hands grip at Alexsandr’s thighs, pushing them apart, stretching Alexsandr’s leg over his shoulder. “And then I am going to keep fucking you. Savvy?”  
  
“Yes, sir,” Alexsandr repeats plaintively. He struggles against his restraints, and Zeb smiles. 

Flattening his palm to Alexsandr’s chest, Zeb slides it up his torso to his shoulder, and then down his arm, so he can grip the ropes. He slams Alexsandr’s wrists to the floor above his head and leans over him. Alexsandr writhes.

Alexsandr’s head snaps back as Zeb thrusts into him. He’s ruthless, snapping his hips and sinking deep as he can. Alexsandr actually whines, voice pitching higher as Zeb crashes into him like a high seas storm, and Zeb swallows the sound. He licks into Alexsandr’s mouth and the taste is heady and sweet.

Zeb groans as he buries himself in Alexsandr again and again. Liquid fire travels his veins. The heat is sharp and pointed in his stomach, but cloudy in his head, and Zeb is so delirious with pleasure he hardly hears Alexsandr’s next words.

“Please,” he begs.

Alexsandr’s thighs tremble against Zeb’s chest. Zeb slows his thrusts, and Alexsandr keens, the sound approaching a sob. Alexsandr struggles harder against Zeb’s hand at his wrist, desperate to be touched; against his body, trying to get some friction to his cock. 

Zeb rolls his cock, teases Alexsandr’s prostate. “Fuck!” he screams, the curse ripped from his throat. “Please!”

He barely has to touch Alexsandr’s cock and Alexsandr is coming, Every part of him shakes in ecstasy, and Zeb fucks him through it, savoring the feeling of Alexsandr’s cock convulsing and emptying into his hand and all over Alexsandr’s chest and neck.

Alexsandr sucks in a breath and then pants it out; ravaged and overstimulated, Alexsandr almost seems feverish, thrashing and sweating underneath Zeb’s body. Once more he is struck by how beautiful Alexsandr is, and it’s the sight that pushes him to his own end.

Zeb has wrecked ships before. It is an inevitability in the seas; an expected practice of war. He has never felt anything but pride in those victories--and certainly has never envied those vessels, laid to rest in the ocean. But as he stares at Alexsandr’s chest, heaving as he moans, Zeb wants to be shipwrecked in the ribcage under it. He could be stranded in the curve of Alexsandr’s hip and never want for more.

Zeb’s body surrenders to that desire. When he comes, he bites off his shout into Alexsandr’s shoulder as if he could devour him. He licks salt from the wound.

Once he stops shaking, Zeb slowly lifts his arm from Alexsandr’s wrists. He assesses each moment before his next movements: Alexsandr nods and Zeb pulls out. Alexsandr brings his wrists to his chest, and Zeb unties him.

There are already bruises forming. Zeb kisses the marks gently, holding Alexsandr’s forearms as Alexsandr stretches his fingers. They sit up together. The ankle cuff comes next, and then Zeb lays his palm against Alexsandr’s cheek.

“Uh, welcome to the _Ghost_?” he offers weakly. Alexsandr gives a breathy laugh in response, turning his face into Zeb’s hand. He kisses his palm.

“Happy to be aboard, sir.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on twitter @dykeoftomorrow or tumblr @ithappensoffstage if you are ever so inclined!


End file.
